Winning
by sillythings
Summary: Molliarty/Sherlolly. Molly and Moriarty commiserate. Sherlock confronts Molly
1. Chapter 1

_**Written because there's never enough Molliarty. A little bit mature. Please do not read if you are not of age. **_

It was Valentine's Day, and Molly Hooper had a date. Sherlock hadn't coerced her into cancelling by asking her to work overtime as he often did, citing her heartlessness at leaving criminals at large because she wanted to spend a tiresome evening in the company of a man that was lacking, always lacking in some way or another. But Sherlock had not been around much at all since Christmas, not since he came to x-ray the phone. Molly read John's blog. Molly knew why.

So, with John's latest blog entry fresh in her mind, she eagerly accepted a date with Brian, a research professor at the hospital. It was a first date on Valentine's Day. Molly knew what Brian was after. She thought she might even let him have it. Brian was fairly tall, reasonably fit, very polite, extremely well-respected. Brian really was lovely, except for the fact that he was utterly boring. It wasn't fair to think it, but there you had it. The last two men who earned Molly's affections were a consulting detective who was a self-professed sociopath, and a consulting criminal who was a known psychopath. It really wasn't Brian's fault if he couldn't compete with that.

She was at home, preparing for her date, and she was determined to keep it simple—the thought of her eagerness to please at the Christmas party caused her face to burn. Hair loose, not curled. She wore a silky maroon blouse, with just a small ruffle on the neckline. She did not wear heels. Molly was adding a touch of gloss to her lips—no lipstick- when her phone rang. She didn't recognize the number, but she answered, hoping Brian wasn't cancelling on her. She needed this. She needed to feel pretty. She needed someone to take her out. Make her forget, just for a little while, that the man she loved didn't love her.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Molly," a familiar Irish lilt made her stumble and sit down on the edge of her bed.

"Brian sends his apologies," the voice continued politely. Her heart stopped. Literally, she was sure it stopped for the briefest of moments before it dropped into the pit of her stomach. "Why'd you want go out with him anyway?" The tone shifted to playfulness.

"Have you seen what he stores on his work computer? Pictures of his dog, Molly, his dog and his mother. Yech. My God, he's dull. I had to work with the guy. I should know."

"Jim—oh, Jim. You didn't hurt him?" she pleaded. She couldn't bear it if that nice man had been hurt because of her.

"No, no, nothing like that. I knew you wouldn't like that, and I want you agreeable this evening." Her heart started beating again, too fast. She felt dizzy. "I just sent him a text saying that you changed your mind—decided to meet up with an ex this evening instead."

Molly was silent. Oh, no. No. She didn't want this. She just wanted a nice dinner with a nice man, maybe a nice breakfast, too. No, she did not want a date with insanity. She was barely holding onto her own.

"Wh—" she swallowed and tried again, "What do you mean, Jim?"

"Look, could you open your front door? It's starting to rain out here, and Toby is getting hair all over my trousers. I can't believe you let him out on a night like this." He sounded petulant, a little irritated. Was that a subtle threat to her cat? She didn't think so. Jim liked Toby. She thought. Of course, she thought Jim liked her, too. Maybe he still did.

Molly was a fool. She had the phone in her hand. Her door was locked. All she had to do was call the police. Call Lestrade. She would be safe.

Molly walked toward the door, knowing with each step she was an idiot. She watched her hand turn the knob and open the door, waiting for her brain to catch up with her body and make her stop these foolish actions. She told herself she didn't stop because she was worried about Toby. That was a lie.

And there he was, the madman in the well cut suit, smiling at her—roguish, handsome, out of his mind. Toby dashed between their legs, heading for the warmth of the radiator.

"Hi." He held out a bouquet of white orchids. "Happy Valentine's Day!"

She took the flowers with a numb hand and stepped back to let him in. A part of her mind was screaming—don't let him in! But while Molly was academically gifted, a talented professional, she was an absolute and utter fool when it came to men. At least when it came to two men in particular.

Jim was slicking back his rain damp hair, wiping his feet on the mat, and he was chiding her, "Molly, Molly—poor Toby. Letting his suffer in the elements as you pretty yourself up for that boor." He looked up at her again and grinned, "Did you miss me?"

"No." she said bluntly.

"You wound me, Molly" his teeth were so white. Terrifying- that mouthful of teeth.

"Why are you here? What do you want? I'm going to call the police," she threatened, a nervous quaver in her voice.

He waved his hand dismissively, "No, you're not." He wasn't even concerned. Nice. Why wasn't she more concerned? Because she was an idiot.

"So, I've suffered a disappointment, Molly. I'm a bit shaken and you're the only one who could really understand, I think." He wandered into the sitting area and made himself comfortable on the sofa, patting a spot next to him. "Have a seat."

She tossed the flowers on the nearby chair. She sat.

"I am very afraid that Sherlock Holmes isn't nearly as clever as I've given him credit for, Molly." Jim said with a heavy, disappointed sigh. "I mean, he fell for her. Fell for the trap as easily as you were going to fall into bed for that -."

"Brian," she supplied automatically with a frown. She wasn't going to fall into bed _easily_. Brian was going to have to buy her an expensive dinner first, at least. What was Jim talking about?

"Whatever," he frowned at his shoes, there was a slight scuff on the toe, but that really wasn't the cause of his ire. He looked up Molly again, "Is he worth it?"

"Brian?" she asked, confused. Jim had always had a tendency to wander in his conversation.

"No," he sighed again, irritated with her slowness, "Sher-Lock Holmes." He enunciated slowly as if she were hard of hearing or mentally deficient.

"How would I know?" she asked frightened and angry. "Worth what?" She didn't know what this was about, and even though she was afraid, she couldn't help her righteous anger, "He's not been worth the tears I've cried, no."

Jim sniffed, a little exhalation and nodded, "No, he's not worth your tears, but is he clever?" He looked at Molly closely, "I think he might be kind of…_dumb_. " Such scorn he managed to infuse into that one childish word, "At least about some things." His eyes flitted to the low cut neck of her silky blouse, an admiring, very male gaze. Despite it all, she found herself warmed by it.

Molly stared a Jim and opened her mouth to answer, hesitating-not even sure what she was going to say. _Of course, he's dumb_—but how could she utter such a betrayal.

"I mean, here you are, panting for him, thoroughly and completely loyal and in love, and what does he do," Jim shook his head, "he falls right for the most cliché set up in the world! The femme fatale, the damsel in distress. Good God, is he really that transparent?" He shook his head again, "I had such high hopes." He frowned at his shoes again. He seemed genuinely hurt. Didn't she know_ that_ feeling.

Molly tried to process what he was telling her before she gave up—mind shut down, heart shut down. She couldn't take it. Refused to think about it. She raised her hands and shrugged helplessly. Jim's eyes raked her body again. He liked what he saw.

"You are very pretty tonight," he said simply, eyes on her loose, shining hair. He met her gaze, "Brian would not have appreciated you, you know. I think he likes his women a bit blonder. Full bust." He gestured briefly, hands in front of his chest. Molly nodded in agreement. It figured.

"He just thought you'd be easy to get into bed." Molly nodded again. True enough, but somehow words that would have stung her to the core if they had been spoken by Sherlock, seemed like a welcome truth from Jim's lips. Maybe because she knew Jim wasn't trying to push her away with them, and he wouldn't pretend his words weren't hurtful.

"It would have been easy, too, wouldn't it, Molly," he leered at her, his eyes hooded. "Naughty Molly, you were going to let that dullard mount you like an animal. Shame on you." He shook his head at her slowly, clucking his tongue.

She started to speak, ashamed at being called out, but then straightened her back and stared levelly back into those black eyes, "We all have needs," she tried to sound dignified. And hers sure weren't being met by Sherlock.

"Mmm. Yes, we do," he quirked up the corner of his mouth and blinked at her lazily. "He wouldn't have been any good, you know…at _it_." His face was an imitation of embarrassment.

Molly tightened her jaw. "How would you know? You've had him?" There was one more humiliation at the whim of Sherlock Holmes—denouncing her boyfriend as gay. She had a whole series of scenes she could humiliate herself with, usually at night with the pillow over her head as she imagined how she should have responded, what she should have said. The Jim is gay scene had been the worst until recently.

"Oh, hah, yes, that's right. I'm gay. Forgot about that." Jim giggled suddenly, "No, I didn't have dear old Brian. I have better taste than that I should hope." Molly's nostrils flared at the insult.

"I'm sure you do. My taste in men, however, has always been questionable." Her look at him was pointed.

"Oh, oh, oh" he slapped in knee in mock hilarity, "aren't we feisty tonight." He grinned at her as if he was genuinely pleased, but his face dropped again, and he stared once more at his shoes.

"I'm sad tonight, Molly. I don't like being sad." Jim hunched his shoulders, pulling the corners of his mouth down. "Sherlock Holmes has disappointed me." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, "I reckoned you would sympathize."

She reached out to pat his knee—oh, how she could sympathize. She was mad for the man, too. Poor Jim. Poor Molly.

He took her hand gently and squeezed. He turned to face her and leaning in, gave her a chaste, lingering kiss. She knew reason was out the window when she felt his lips on hers. She _was_ just as mad as he was.

"I'm sad, too." She whispered against his lips.

"I know." He whispered back, and that was it for conversation. His mouth moved over hers, eventually traveling down her neck, nuzzling and breathing her in. She found his earlobe and traced the shape of his ear with his tongue until he shuddered. She gently pushed him away and stood up, holding out her hand to him. He took it and she led him into her bedroom.

He was warm, so warm, and his black eyes were impish as he grinned at her, a little manic, as they settled into the bed. But that mania was just a bit appealing. Wasn't that what attracted her to Sherlock after all? Sherlock was all bright, burning obsession, though he was so cold on the outside. Under that ice, she knew he was ablaze. If Jim had any ice at all, it was inside. Outwardly, he burned cozily, warm in his mania, and her body was reacting to it. She needed to be warm. She was cold inside too. They had a similar want. Why not help each other? It seemed that she had a soft spot for helping sociopaths in need.

Sherlock had been cold and cruel. Knowing that woman by her nudity—bringing the body to _**her **_morgue. Bringing the phone to _**her**_ lab,_**hers**_! and telling her about the games the woman liked to play. Molly was strong. She wasn't going to let Sherlock Holmes break her, but it hurt. It hurt because she did want him. She did love him, as much as she hated that fact, as much as she wished she could stop. He wouldn't let her stop.

Stringing her along, kissing her cheek, and he was always,_ always_ in the lab or in the morgue (she _worked_ there—she couldn't just quit), always texting her for information and parts for experiments. How could she get over him if he wouldn't leave her the hell alone? How could she move on if he managed to come between her and every date she had, either through direct insult face to face, or subtle insinuations when he deduced she was going out with someone new, planting those doubts about her new man—he's married, he's stupid, he's using her to get to illicit drugs, he's gay-

"Gay" Jim. Not so gay after all. Not so good either. He was a bad, bad man, but he warmed her up so pleasantly after Sherlock's coldness. Jim from IT was goofy and sweet, and there was still something of that Jim here now. The attentiveness to her skin, her lips—the almost innocent expression on his face as he focused on undoing every single button on her blouse, gently unzipping her skirt, carefully undressing her until she lay naked in his arms. The surprised, shy smile when she reached into his opened trousers and grasped him, feeling his desire—a desire for her, unquestionably. There was no other reason for him to be here. Sherlock didn't want her. Using her wouldn't get Moriarty any closer to the consulting detective. He wanted to play with her—he needed diversion, maybe he needed a little comfort. She understood. She wanted to play, too, and there was no doubt that she needed some reassurance that she was desirable.

Jim cradled her head in his hands as he laid possessive, burning kisses on her eyes, her lips. There was an eager sweetness in him, but it was the raw power of Moriarty that pulled her. Jim, she could have ignored Jim, but it was Moriarty who wanted her, and she was tired of not being wanted, tired of settling for fumbling, dull men—men who either ignored or were intimidated by her knowledge, her ability to cut up a human body, to learn its secrets, of her ability to look at any human being and know, know as an absolute fact what lay under their skin. Sweet Molly. Silly Jim. Dark Dr. Hooper. Mad Moriarty. Both were true representations of self—they just seemed a little incongruous, a little difficult to resolve—it resulted in awkward earnestness on her part, insanity on his.

She understood and for tonight, she relished how the pieces of themselves, so jagged and ill-fitting, came together so smoothly when they were together. James Moriarty had fire dancing in his black eyes as he gazed appreciatively at her small, round breasts, her smooth thighs, his hands, his lips moving over and branding what his eyes had already claimed, showing his appreciation for her silky skin with soft kisses and nips. She sighed and moved against those lips and fingers, and she stroked his shoulders, sunk her fingers into his hair and sighed. He moved up to hold her in his arms, his head on her chest as he gently stroked her quivering belly.

"Sherlock hasn't done a very good job taking care of what is his," he murmured against the side of her breast, before rolling to his back and gently pulling her to sit astride him. _I'm not his_ was the retort (the lie) on her lips, but she stayed silent, sinking down on him without a word but watching his face closely.

How fascinating that mousy Molly Hooper was the reason James Moriarty was making that face, losing his carefully maintained control. She didn't fool herself—he was letting himself lose that control, but he was letting her be the cause, letting her see it. She wondered briefly how often he did this and then ignored the thought. She wondered briefly if Sherlock had ever allowed himself be seen by another (that woman) in a similar state. She quickly pushed that thought down as well.

It didn't matter.

What mattered was Jim, here with her, by his choice. By hers. What mattered was the heat of him, the solid presence of him between her thighs. Jim's eyes widened and his hands moved to her hips where he clutched her hard, pressing her flush with his skin. "Dear me, he has neglected you," he managed to mutter thickly. "You're on fire," he gasped looking down to where they were joined. "The more fool him."

She planted a hand on either side of his head and kissed him sweetly for those words, and he groaned into her mouth as she moved against him.

Yes. She was on fire, and she needed an answering blaze. Jim wasn't good for her. If he stayed, she would burn up completely, be destroyed. But he wouldn't stay. He was not here for a relationship. He was playing a little game, a game Sherlock didn't even know how to play. She knew all this. But for now, she simply enjoyed the fact that for once, she was winning.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead. He was back and more popular than ever. The press surrounded him anytime he stepped out his front door. They had the story. There wasn't that much more to tell but everyone was looking for a new angle, a new exclusive. As a result, Sherlock took to hiding at Molly's flat—not often, but enough that it felt a little like habit.

She didn't want to raise her hopes, but she knew he found comfort in her presence. They were friends. Nothing more, but it would do, she thought, feeling a sweet, stabbing pain in her heart. She glanced at Sherlock who was currently stationed at her laptop, tapping away at something. He was frowning at the screen, but he seemed relaxed. He wasn't really working on anything important then—some research of his own. She'd ask him about it later. Right now, she was enjoying the cozy domesticity of the moment, curled on the sofa with the cat as he worked. She yawned.

"It's getting late, Sherlock. Are you staying here for much longer?" She stood up to head toward the kitchen, "I can heat something up and you are welcome to stay if you'd like," he looked up at her then, a piercing gaze.

"I—uh—I just meant you can take my bed if you don't want to fight the press to get home." She stumbled even though she knew he knew what she meant. He'd done it before. He stayed with her briefly right after his "suicide" and right before his "resurrection." He knew what she meant. It was her own poorly suppressed desires getting in the way again. In her embarrassment, she tried to save face.

"I should set up a little plaque, like they do on historical buildings, you know?" he stared at her without speaking, and she foolishly continued her rambling, "Sherlock Holmes slept here. I could charge to let people tour. Heh!" He blinked at her and looked back to the computer. No, he'd never cared much for her jokes. Or for his fame, for that matter.

She felt her face flush, but she never did know when to quit.

"Hey, I could put one up for Jim Moriarty too, charge double! The Crime of the Century tour we could call it. Have a stop outside of St. Barts, the courthouse…" She was rambling. Shut up, Molly. Shut it, she scolded herself.

Sherlock's eyes had snapped back to her.

"Moriarty?" he asked.

"Yes?" she wasn't sure what he was asking.

"Moriarty slept here?" his tone was carefully casual. Uh-oh. He wasn't happy.

Molly stayed quiet, but she smiled a foolish smile and rather aimlessly raised a hand before letting it drop, "Um-"

"You were with him. You slept with Moriarty." He seemed taken aback and a line was beginning to form on his forehead. His full attention was on her. She shuffled uncertainly, taking a step backward toward the kitchen.

"You knew Jim and I dated." She said nonchalantly. She turned, "I have some leftover takeaway or I could heat up some soup or—"

"I didn't say you slept with Jim," Sherlock interrupted her brusquely. "Though maybe you did," he amended looking at the flush rise in her cheeks, "I said, you slept with Moriarty." He was calm, but there was something in his voice that alarmed her. He was angry.

"What's the difference?" she asked, shaking her head. What was the difference?. Oh, she knew there was. So did he.

"I thought he wasn't your boyfriend? Only went out 3 times, you said." He punctuated the last statement by jabbing his finger at her.

"We did only go out 3 times, though he came by here..once." She protested, "It wasn't a date." It wasn't. It was consolation—Sherlock Holmes had disappointed them—they found comfort in each other. And the sex—well, that was very good too.

"I knew you were sentimental to the extreme, but I never thought that you could be such a fool," he hurled the words at her, cruel—but not cold. He was hot with his fury.

"How can you possibly judge me. Me! After the games you played with him." Molly shook her head in disbelief.

"Hardly the same. " Sherlock sneered at her. "I didn't have a physical relationship with him. I didn't give him my _affection,_" his mouth twisted, mocking her with the word.

"Maybe not to _him_. " Her look was significant. He needed to stop this. Stop it now because while she still stupidly loved him, she hadn't forgotten his rejection of her.

"But maybe you did the same with the one who worked for him." She didn't need to say the name. Let him deduce who she was talking about. He was good at that.

Sherlock blinked and pursed his lips. She'd never, ever alluded to Adler before. Never. He thought Molly above such things, honestly.

"Not physically," he objected. "Sex is…it's not my area, Molly. I'm not like the masses, needing to rub up against each other in some animalistic struggle all for a transitory spark of pleasure. "

That's what he thought sex was. No wonder he avoided it. Just like he avoided food until you put a plate of dim sum in front of him after he'd solved a case. Then he was an animal at trough.

"You didn't then?" she asked. Her heart squeezed with…hope? Fear? "You didn't have anything with her?" She tried to keep her features blank. Don't let him see how it hurt. How much she hoped.

He stood up from the desk and began to pace before her, "I was briefly…_mentally_ distracted. That's all. I am not so easily controlled by my base, physical desires." He threw a contemptuous glance at her—_like you_, the look said.

"Well, hooray for you," Molly said rudely. Who the hell did he think he was? He could just take himself right off that pedestal or she'd help him off.

He watched her warily. Angry Molly made him nervous. He liked to dominate. He would outlive God to get the last word, John often said. He wanted to win at everything. But an angry Molly—he never seemed to triumph against an angry Molly. He tried a different tactic.

"You did count, Molly," he said softly, "More than I knew. You do count."

"Hooray for me," was the flat reply.

"I did not mean to—to hurt you, but I cannot pretend to understand your sexual needs, Molly." He was trying to explain, honestly. "Sex for me is brainwork. If my brain is stimulated, I have pleasure. I've never required such…intimacies." He felt a blush stain his cheeks. This was not a conversation he ever intended to have with anyone, let alone Molly.

"Never?" She was honestly surprised. How could a man who looked like that, moved like that, burned like that _never…_

He suddenly looked embarrassed. Dear Lord. Was he really that innocent? He had given truly everything to his work.

"That's not the point." It bloody well was the point as far as she was concerned, but he pressed forward, "The point is, you haven't even apologized for what you did."

"What did I do?" She asked, exasperated.

"You had sexual relations with James Moriarty, knowing full well who he was!" Sherlock exploded. He was righteous as he stared down at her. He'd revealed too much of himself. It was her turn to explain her deplorable actions. She ducked her head.

"Oh, well," she stammered a moment before breathing in her resolve and staring him straight in the eye said, "I'm not sorry for that."

His mouth dropped open and his face…oh, his face was a picture. Offended confusion—what did she mean? Did not compute. She wondered for a moment if she'd broken his brain. Smoke would be coming out of his ears in a moment.

"I'm not sorry," she said again. "It was lovely and he made me feel pretty and desirable." And that was the truth—_unlike you, _she was too kind to add that part out loud. "He wasn't afraid to show me that he wanted me."

"He had people killed, Molly!" Sherlock shouted. This woman was unbelievable. This, exactly this, was why he never wished to dabble in relationships—too much energy spent on things that shouldn't have to be explained.

"So does Mycroft!" she shouted back. Sherlock's head snapped back at that before giving a brief nod. True enough.

"Besides," Molly hissed savagely, "look who you fell in love with—hardly an upstanding citizen." She glared at him. Yeah, that's right, Mr. Self-righteous.

"I wasn't in love with anyone," Sherlock's voice was angry, tight. "I was a foolish, and arrogant and enjoyed showing off."

"Hmm. Then we aren't so different are we? You couldn't imagine the things I can show off," and with those words, little Molly, shy and earnest, was suddenly as seductive a creature as Sherlock had ever seen in his life. "They don't call me Little Miss Perfect, for nothing. I'm good at _anything_ I put my mind to." Her high sweet voice, dropped into huskiness and those shining brown eyes were heavy lidded, sensual. His face paled.

She took a step toward him, her voice still low and seductive, "I told you once that we all do silly things. Are_ you_ sorry?" She smiled a smile he'd never seen on her face before. It was knowing. It knew something he didn't. He felt his belly tighten. He wondered what it would be like to kiss that smile off her face. Where had that thought come from?

"Are you?" she insisted, taking another step toward him. He could smell her now—soap and clean clothes and that particular Molly scent, the one that sometimes filled his nose when they worked together in the lab or the morgue, that warm, woman smell of her that rose above the chemicals and the decay.

"Oh, God…" he uttered in absolute frustration—at himself? At her?, "at this point, more than you know."

"Good." Molly spat the word. Her eyes lost the dreaminess and she was fire-bright in her anger. Her little hands clenched into fists. She was furious—how _dare_ he? How dare he try to make her feel bad for that small bit of warmth and comfort she'd had from the only other person on the planet who could ever have understood how she felt—the only person even more obsessed than she was with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock raised a hand to his lips, wiping his chin, and took a step forward, back, forward again. He was so upset he was literally, physically moved. Both hands went to his head before dropping to his sides, hanging limply. They stood, both tense, facing each other in the dimly lit room.

"What did you show Moriarty—you're a show off didn't you say? What did you show him?" Sherlock was the first to speak, and his eyes were dark, his voice—oh, that voice, was low and angry. He was growling at her. The hairs on her arm raised—fear, desire—all the same it seemed for her.

She tried to control her voice, but it still trembled as she answered him, "nothing you're interested in, I know."

Her chin was firm and she held herself proudly. She didn't have to explain anything to him. She knew Jim hadn't been a good man., but then, neither was Sherlock most of the time. He wore a peculiar expression—a mixture of anger, regret and—she didn't want to imagine it, she didn't want to fool herself into seeing something that wasn't there, but it was—desire. Desire for her.

He was on her in a matter of seconds, his motion toward her too rapid for her to register until he had her by the shoulders, one hand on her neck. Dazed she felt him roughly pull her to him, even closer.

"You don't know anything," he hissed.

Before she could respond, his mouth slammed against hers. It was awkward, all teeth and dry, tense lips. That sensual mouth and he had no idea how to use it. If he ever did, he'd forgotten. He pulled back and stared, panting and wild-eyed at Molly who stared back, just as stunned.

She started to speak, but his mouth was on hers again, and this time, he seemed to understand how his mouth should fit with hers—oh yes, it was angry and forceful, but it was good. She tilted her chin up to better get at that lush mouth. He was trying to punish her with his lips—punish her for enjoying the kisses of another man—the only man that could ever begin to compare to him. She'd hurt his feelings. Well, about damn time.

She bit his lip, not that hard, but it was enough to make him suck in a surprised breath, and she slipped her tongue into his opened mouth, tasting him, feeling that sharp tongue of his so soft, so warm now, cautiously move against hers.

What followed was nothing like the sensual seductions she'd imagined when she let herself imagine making love to Sherlock Holmes. They didn't make it to the bed. He was too eager, too intent on proving her wrong, and when she tried to lead him, he threw off her guiding hand, and manhandled her to the sofa before they decided it was too narrow and moved to the hard, unforgiving floor. At first, it was all knees and elbows. He popped a button off his shirt in his eagerness, and she forgot to take off her socks. Her head bumped into the leg of the coffee table as he moved over her, completely artless.

To Molly, it was absolute perfection. Not physically, he wasn't going to last long. He was too rough in his eagerness, overwhelmed and lost in his own emotion—listening only to the demands of his body, his heart. There would be time to teach him later, and she knew he was an excellent student when he was interested in the topic. But he was giving in to her—finally, oh yes, and his mouth was warm on her lips, on her neck. His eyes were roving over her breasts, her face, his hands moving everywhere at once, as if he didn't know where to touch first. She reached out to pull that curly head down to her, kissing his temple. His chin dug into her shoulder and she wrapped her arms around him.

She helped him find a rhythm, and oh, yes—that was it. He had it now. He lifted his head to kiss her desperately before throwing his head back, sucking in a deep and noisy breath. She watched his face, saw his brow furrow, his eyes widen, and his beautiful mouth became a kissable O of pleasure. She lifted her head and kissed that mouth again, and he shuddered and groaned before collapsing on top of her.

She ran a soothing hand down his back, her face in his hair, crooning nonsense, soothing him as lay boneless and overwhelmed, his weight pressing her to the floor. He murmured something into the damp, hot skin of her neck. She stiffened, her hand stilled its gentle petting. What had he said? She tugged gently at his hair until he raised his face to look at her. His mouth was full and sweet though his eyes flashed with irritable embarrassment—"You heard me," he muttered and buried his face into her neck again.

She lay very still. Replaying those three words in her head. He sighed and shifted position so he could hold her against his chest. He kissed her hair.

Well. Look at that. She'd won.


End file.
